Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “But—” Julian tried to respond.

  “I did not give an order to kill the monks.”

  “They saw my face.”

  “Your mistakes made me have to interfere.” He sat down near his desk. “Can you ever use your head rather your sword? Just one time?”

  The question was covered in irony. The master was a thin and bleak man, in his early fifties. His hair was almost gray, but he took care of it. He sported a rich warrior’s outfit, with ornaments showing his high status. There was an inch-long, vertical scar below his left eye. He had never mentioned how it had happened and no one dared to ask. He had saved Julian from misery and starvation, accepting him into his service. The master had helped him to restore some of his pride. But he demanded complete obedience and when he didn’t receive it, he became extremely violent and had the power to destroy a man’s world.

  A knock sounded at the door and a guard opened it. A short man with hooded face entered. Julian’s master turned his attention to the newly-arrived person and ignored the blond knight for a moment.

  “They leave tonight,” the short messenger said.

  “Direction?”

  “Jerusalem”

  “Why?”

  “The assassin promised to help them fetch a healer for Edward, in exchange for his life,” the man answered.

  “So, he is alive. Who is the healer?”

  “Ibn al-Nafis.”

  “Well, that will be bloody fun. What about the witness, the orphan?”

  “He will be with the riding party.”

  “So, the journey continues.”

  “There is one more thing,” the hooded man said.

  “What?” the master asked.

  “The Desert Wolf will ride with them, too.”

  “This is interesting. The most dangerous men in our plan will travel together toward Jerusalem. They will be at a hand’s reach from our sword.” The master smiled, then murmured something to the messenger. It was only for his ears; Julian didn’t hear it.

  The master sent the messenger away and turned to the blond knight again.

  “You are lucky. You will have another chance. Please do not disappoint me again,” he said and smiled. It was cold smile which froze the heart.

  Julian didn’t need any threat to know what he must do. He was keen to succeed this time and to earn the pleasure of his master. And some fortune, of course.

  His master smiled and was in a good mood from whatever the messenger told him.

  “Julian, please, prepare two messengers for me right away,” the master said. He turned to the window, then back to the blond knight.

  “We need a new plan,” the old man smiled, “The world needs to be reordered. There is a great chance and we have to grab it.”

  And Julian went out of the room to obey his master.

  ***

  Otto was on his balcony, watching the party depart.

  “Do you trust him?” James asked. “The Wolf?”

  “We must have faith, my friend,” Otto said. “Besides, we need a man like him.”

  “But I don’t trust him.”

  “Nor do I,” Otto said. “But Lady Eleanor thinks we haven’t much of a choice.”

  James leaned against the wall.

  “After all, it’s was his idea to take the assassin with you,” Otto said. “We need to spread the rumors that the Desert Wolf and the failed assassin were headed to Jerusalem with your party looking for a physician.”

  “So, we are baits for the enemy to make his move?”

  “Well, yes, my friend,” Otto said. “And you need to take Peter, the witness of the last night event, with you.”

  “First, I have to find him.”

  “You do not have to. Look over there.” Otto pointed down the street. Peter was walking toward the castle.

  “You want me to take this inexperienced recruit with me?” James asked.

  “It is necessary, we have to wait for all the plotters to come out in the open with a desire to silence the witnesses,” Otto said.

  “It will be a dangerously interesting week,” James grinned. “So, we play a game of predator in a lamb’s skin?”

  Otto nodded and placed his hand on his Scottish friend’s shoulder.

  “We will catch all the traitors and plotters with dirty hands and we will punish them, my friend.”

  “It’s a risky business,” James said.

  “Yes indeed, and I believe you will do fine, my friend.” Otto smiled.

  It would be a long week. He hoped his friend would be all right. He had debated the plan with Edward and Lady Eleanor. The couple had given their approval.

  The intelligence network Otto tried to use was hastily assembled, unlike the sultan’s Qussad. The Crusaders used traitorous and weak souls to trade their news and information in exchange for something to eat. The professionals the sultan used were another breed.

  From Otto’s point of view, this opportunity to overthrow the Mamluks’ spy network was the most difficult challenge he had faced. All previous attempts had been games of swords and spears.

  There was something new that intrigued his never-sleeping mind: a ring on the orphan’s hand. He had seen those marks before, but where? He eventually would remember.

  He hoped not to be too late.

  Chapter Eight

  Plains of Acre, Holy Land, Sunday, 19th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ

  A new dawn was born.

  The Sun slowly started to climb toward its throne. With vivid warmth, he touched the land and woke up every living creature.

  They had been riding all night. He yawned from his place on the saddle of the brown horse he had received last night. This was the first time he had left the city. Peter was afraid, but also impatient. His dream to see and explore something new was about to come true.

  Yesterday, after calming down, he had returned to the castle. Sir James had embraced him but had also slapped his neck.

  “I was worried about you, lad,” he had said. Otto and the Scottish knight had questioned him about the monastery. His stomach had knotted with guilt during their questioning. Was he a criminal? They had offered Peter their condolences on the loss of his mentor. But there hadn’t been much time to talk.

  Otto had ordered him to join the newly-formed party. This new task offered Peter a chance to escape another assault from Julian, and James was in charge of it. Peter had felt that he couldn’t say no.

  The others weren’t as inexperienced as the orphan—Red Herring; David; Owen; a pale Frankish stranger dressed in a wretched, dirty robe who looked like a monk; the assassin; and an arrogant knight called Hamo Le Strange. There were five other men that Peter didn’t know, as well. Twelve men left the southern gate—a dirty dozen whose only purpose was to bring life for their beloved lord, no matter the cost.

  And, thus, their mission began.

  The previous night, there hadn’t been a feast for Edward’s birthday. Instead, there had been a meeting followed by preparation for the expedition. The party was meant to fetch a physician to save Lord Edward s life, the best one around, Ibn al-Nafis.

  Their second directive, of course, was to survive. They needed to find the physician who would dare to try to heal the prince. But most of the physicians would not touch a case as dire as Edward’s.

  Peter was eager to understand. Owen explained it to him.

  “Most of the physicians in Acre don’t even dare to try,” he began. “Some old Hospitaller advised cutting out the poisoned flesh. A respected Saracen healer refused to commit himself to the patient. It was too risky.” He paused to emphasize the seriousness of the situation.

  “They all say it is only a matter of time until death comes. These bloody physicians. You should be afraid when you need one of them,” Owen said.

  “No one has offered help; no one has offered the skill or expressed the desire to heal the future king of England. It is pathetic. Most of the physicians know the law,” James added. The orp
han wanted to know more.

  Red Herring explained, “If the patient dies, there will be a trial for the physician to determine whether the healer did everything he could. Did he do everything that was necessary? Why didn’t he do this or that?

  “No one wants to pay the price for a dead royal body, and the chance of success is slim. Most have said the patient will die regardless of the treatment given. No one will risk his own reputation for a poisoned person, even a royal one.” Red Herring grunted with disgust.

  “So, now we ride to Jerusalem, the center of the world, to find a real healer,” Owen said.

  It was going to be a hell of a trip. This path would lead them into the sultan’s territory, which was controlled by Mamluk forces.

  Edward’s fellowship rode into hostile territory dressed as pilgrims and priests being escorted by a few mercenaries. Their armor, weapons, and gear were in one of the wooden carts they drove. Over these belongings were several corpses—bodies they had fetched from the cemetery. The assassin was tied to a second cart.

  According to their story, they were transporting dead holy men to be buried in the Christian cemetery of Jerusalem. These were meant to be two famous monks who had recently passed away, someone named Nickolas and the other—Peter had forgotten his name.

  The orphan smiled. Who would believe them?

  “We look like cats dressed in mice clothing,” Owen said.

  “A Welsh cat, indeed,” James said.

  “Ha, but some say many knights and heroes have traveled this path, the path of humbleness and pilgrimage,” the Welshman said. He smiled at the orphan. “You are still alive, eh? Do I look like a humble priest?” He released his viper laugh.

  The inexorable heat drained the water from their bodies, causing them to ride mostly in silence. The five soldiers Peter didn’t know were dressed as hired blades—mercenaries—the kind that were routinely paid to protect people on journeys to the Holy City. They were dressed in leather armor vests and carried flat-topped kite shields, spears and swords, and kettle helmets. They bore no banners or standards. Mercenaries provided services to the pilgrims who couldn’t afford to hire Templars or Hospitallers.

  The roles were divided. James, Owen, Peter, and the pale Frank played friars; the others were dressed as their bodyguards.

  Hamo Le Strange, the arrogant knight, played a wealthy lord from the Welsh Marches, the lands on the border between England and Wales, which he actually was. But now, he acted as the leader of the mercenaries, and Sergeant David played his steward.

  The theatrics were for the Mamluk’s scout patrols, who watched every caravan, as well as the pilgrims on foot trying to reach absolution.

  “This is ridiculous.” James still didn’t approve of the idea. For Owen, this was amusing.

  Peter understood that Red Herring had protested the plan proposed by Otto and the rogue from the beginning. James couldn’t believe that the Welshman had succeeded in convincing Otto and Hamo to do this. The Scottish knight was irritated, but, after a short argument, he had agreed, Owen’s smile told Peter all he had missed.

  No one could overcome Otto.

  Red Herring grunted; he didn’t look comfortable in the monk’s robe. Even though he had leather armor on under the dress.

  “I hate this stinky robe. I would rather be in my full battle gear if an enemy attack us,” the Scottish knight was muttering incoherently to himself.

  Peter and the rest laughed.

  “We are in a hurry,” he declared to the orphan. “We need also to catch up to an Italian merchant caravan a few hours ahead. We want to use them as a cover.”

  “Italians?”

  “They arrived yesterday with a paper from the Pope and were planning to go straight to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They’ve already managed to fetch letters of protection from King Hugh, the sultan, and even the Tartars,” Owen said.

  “I don’t know how they obtained such papers, but I bloody want to catch them up and bloody travel under their flag.” James was serious.

  “We also need to obtain their favor,” Owen added.

  “And how do we do that?” Peter asked.

  They nervously observed the horizon and the nearby hills for enemies. The assassin in the second cart listened in silence.

  “This corpse story stinks,” Red Herring murmured.

  “How will we win their trust and favor?” Peter asked again.

  “We will have to think of something,” Hamo said and smiled.

  “According to the tavern’s rumors, they were travelers guarded by a group of Genoese crossbowmen. Or were they Venetians? We will find out soon,” James added.

  “Why the hell are there so many mercenaries for some stupid travelers? Perhaps the new Pope needed some fresh holy wine to be delivered?” Owen scratched his curly hair.

  “Hey, don’t forget that the Pope is a close friend to our Edward,” James said.

  “Venetian merchants with Genoese soldiers? I thought they didn’t like each other,” the orphan asked.

  “Since the War of St. Sabas, Venetians are richer; they sometimes hire Genoese crossbowmen. It is simple,” Red Herring answered.

  “We will catch up to them soon, I suppose,” Peter said to no one in particular. He hoped they would be safe under the Italians’ protection.

  David, the short sergeant, didn’t say much. The older men questioned Peter about what had happened at the monastery with Julian. The orphan retold his last adventure. He had become a target, for some reason.

  The orphan looked at Edward the Saracen. The dark mercenaries had been waiting for him, and now they were after Peter. Why?

  The orphan moved his attention to the unnamed last companion, some pale Frank in a torn, dirty robe with a colorless hood. Peter couldn’t determine his age, as the man constantly turned his face to observe the landscape. He was the only one who dared to drive the cart of corpses. The stranger hadn’t said a word all night.

  “Who is he?” Peter asked.

  “We captured him a few days ago,” Owen said.

  “Captured? And now he is on our side?” The orphan was astonished. These days everything was upside down. Red Herring said nothing.

  “He is dangerous. We must keep an eye on him,” the Welshman said, adding with spirit, “So, we are in the wilderness with an assassin in our cart, a strange man attacked by his own, and an orphan with no war experience—a chased man.” Owen nodded to Peter. “We come out for a walk with a couple of corpses. We are riding into hostile territory under the Sun which makes us want to die, leagues away from our home and good ale. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, this is what I signed into this Crusade for. Not for riches, glory, and easy women. No, no, we are here by God’s will, remember,” Hamo said with irony.

  “You bastard, you will kill me with your thoughts quicker than the enemy.” James finally laughed. Edward the Saracen looked at the orphan.

  “How is your head?” the assassin asked.

  “How is yours?” Peter smiled.

  “Do you know it’s not a polite to answer a question with a question?”

  “I had no father to teach me,” the orphan replied.

  “What about the old monk who looked after you?” the assassin asked.

  Peter’s mood became gloomier.

  “He’s dead.”

  Astonished by the answer, Edward the Saracen raised his eyebrows as he said no more but waited for the orphan to explain.

  “The men who were waiting for you killed him. Now they’re after me.”

  “He was an old Hospitaller, but a wise one,” he said. “I liked him. He was very knowledgeable about herbs and potions. It’s sad when such a wise and educated man is lost to the world.”

  Peter’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t known his mentor was a Hospitaller but the infidel had known. The orphan rode beside the wooden cart with the assassin. Peter and Edward the Saracen were watching each other.

  “How did you persuade Sir Otto to spare y
our life and to take you on this mission?” Peter asked.

  “I didn’t do anything. Lady Eleanor did it all herself.”

  Peter smiled. “I am one of her guards since yesterday. I saved her husband but have never spoken to her.” The orphan paused and said, dreamily, “Now I know what I have to do if I want an audience with Lady Eleanor. I have to try to kill her husband, but not to save him.”

  All the men laughed—even the assassin—except the stranger.

  “What is wrong with him?” Peter asked, pointing at the hooded man.

  “He lost his family four days ago,” Red Herring said.

  “Look over there,” one of the men pointed to the shadow on the hill on their left. Peter turned his head and saw horsemen who were watching them. They were about a mile away. Red Herring froze for a moment, then held up his hands and started to pray. The Welshman noticed this and did the same, trying to hide his smile.

  “Are you pretending to be a stupid praying monk, sir?” Owen said.

  Peter didn’t understand at first. The assassin explained to him while observing the horsemen on the ridge.

  “This isn’t an ordinary patrol. There are too many riders, so they do not look like a scout patrol.”

  “Yes, and if they want to catch us, nothing can stop them, right?” Owen murmured.

  They continued along the road.

  Peter turned to Owen.

  “Can you teach me to read?”

  “Eh, but first I must teach myself.” He grinned, as usual. “You don’t learn to survive in the wildland like this from books, Peter.”

  The orphan was disappointed. He had his precious letter and book in his leather bag. He was ashamed to ask Sir James to teach him. He did not want the Scottish knight to understand that he stole a book. He borrowed it, and he intended to return it.

  As they rode, it seemed as if they were all familiar with the route, except Peter.

  “We are being followed from the moment we crossed the plains of Acre,” James said. And now they had seen the Mamluks.

  “We need to catch up to the Italians quickly,” Hamo said. His voice was bold. He was riding a fine, black destrier and James observed the expensive animal.